A Portrait of the Young Man as a Slaphead

"There is more felicity on the far side of baldness than young men can possibly imagine" –Logan Pearsall Smith 

If I had a dollar for every time one of my students asked me about losing my hair, I'd have... well, I'd be in double figures. Probably. I place a high value on building a professional relationship with my students, and take such banter as a sign of trust, and therefore a compliment. In the name of transparency and fun, I recently showed some of my Year 10s the article below, which I wrote for my university magazine many moons ago as part of my journalism module. Oh, and that definitely ain't me in the picture...

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I started losing my hair when I was 19. It was almost shoulder-length, jet-black and curly.  It’s difficult to put into words the trauma of finding your palms full of beloved dark strands when you wash your hair, but I don’t remember being too panicked about it at that early stage. In fact, as I recall I had been going out with a semi-psychotic girl who wouldn’t accept being dumped, so I looked forward to looking like Pluto from The Hills Have Eyes in order to (hopefully) shake her off for good. Come to think of it, it was probably her that caused the loss. 

Image-wise, things were on the change in my favour. Nirvana had just slit the throat of the dying beast that was heavy metal, so big hair was out and apathy was in, and Philadelphia starring Tom Hanks was in the pictures. Every Friday a gang of us from college would congregate in the rock-friendly Great Western (or GW’s) pub near Cardiff station to nurse the one or two pints we could afford while discussing bong-building methods. One of the boys – Taz – came in and stood over me. “Ryan, you are going seriously bald!” he sang. An embarrassed hush fell over the table and I could see my girlfriend out of the corner of my eye mouthing at him to shut the eff up. I laughed it off, but that moment triggered an awareness of impending ugliness. 

My mum, ever the fretful one, sprang into action as soon as she noticed. She’d heard somewhere that rubbing ginger soaked in syrup and fizzy water was a known cure for baldness. She concocted this god-awful mix in an old jam jar and made me sit down for five minutes each day whilst she rubbed it into my scalp. I knew it was fruitless, but was willing to give anything a shot. All I got from it was a sticky pate, which on reflection probably pulled more hair out when I washed it afterwards.

N-n-n-n-nineteen... hello, receding hairline

The first time I took the clippers to it was around a year or so after Taz’s words had scarred me. Things had reached crisis point with my nutty girlfriend, and it was time to lose the thinning long hair and find out just how serious the problem was. A mate did the deed out in my parent’s garage, and I was an instant laughing stock. I went from long haired love-god to baby owl. It worked in shaking her off, but in my mind I was convinced it would be some time before I pulled anyone else.

Most people in college commented that they liked the new look, but I felt like I’d been neutered. I grew it back as quickly as possible, but by the time it reached any kind of length it had gotten thinner. Products like Regaine had recently become available on prescription, and weren’t really advertised enough for me to consider it an option, and seeing Russ Abbott with hair plugs spaced across his otherwise barren dome in the Sunday papers put the final dampeners on any thoughts of challenging Mother Nature.

College finished and I went to work, and I genuinely didn’t know what to do with my hair. I wasn’t ready to get it all off at such a young age and naively hoped it would sort itself out.  Any light-hearted comments or piss-taking were met with a smile that masked a wave of paranoia and panic. Over the next two years I tried dying it blond to reduce the appearance of hair loss, slicked it back to avoid Bobby Charlton moments in the wind, and amassed a fine collection of caps and beanie hats. All of which were placebos delaying the inevitable. I would dream regularly of waking up with a thick glossy do. 

Marmaris, Turkey: I'm the one holding a ciggy with a hairline on the run

It wasn’t until I was 23 and working as a holiday rep that one of my colleagues pretty much changed my life. We were discussing my retreating barnet and the unbearable Turkish heat in the office, when she said in her husky south London accent, “you’re a good-looking guy, why don’t you just shave?” And with that, something clicked. I went straight to the nearest barber’s and had him number one the lot and then shave it. Luckily, I was already fairly tanned on top of my head due to lack of coverage, but the rest of my head was a lot lighter so it looked white and weird for a few days. My bosses were unimpressed, but I didn’t care, I felt liberated.

Getting used to shaving took a while and lots of practise, but now I’ve been doing it for ten years it’s become second nature.  I’m also lucky to live in a time when shaving is, thankfully, acceptable. If I’d had the experience through the seventies and eighties I’d have had to have gone for a comb-over, worn a syrup or joined the National Front. When I see some of the do’s on my fellow Welshmen these days I’m glad I haven’t got the material to inflict such a display on the world (what is that spiked, half-arsed Mohican look with dyed blond tips all about?  It’s somewhere between Beckham ten years ago and a Chernobyl cockerel).

These days I only need to shave on average once every other day, thanks to ridiculously sharp (and expensive) razors and care products. I get some funny looks at the sink in the gym changing rooms with my entire head covered in foam and looking like the moon off The Mighty Boosh, but nothing feels better than rubbing in some top-whack man moisturiser afterwards.

Marmaris, months later, full shaved. Mi amigo Justin was on the same follicular journey

The only downside is the sensitivity. If you crack your bonce on an open cupboard door, the pain and shock is far worse than that for someone with the luxury of hair and you’re going down with an open wound. The sun is also to be respected, and will turn you into something resembling a human matchstick if you don’t get liberal with the factor thirty. As for rain, let me tell you, you ain’t felt a winter downpour until you’ve felt it on a bald head. Then rarely, rarely, you’ll get a comedian who thinks it’ll be funny to give you speedy slaps on the head Benny Hill style. This, along with hurting kids and animals, should be punishable by death. Preferably by stoning.

Anyone entering a dark age of mourning for their hair has my sympathy, because it’s something you need to come to terms with in your own time. I didn’t really come across any articles advising young blokes on going bald, apart from a short column by the late and brilliant Brian Glover and something in Loaded about head-shaving techniques.  So I hope this helps. I also wonder if there’s a market is for counselling those sobbing into their hairy pillows… drop me a line, fellow slaphead.

For support on the stresses of exams or school in general, please book a Homework Help or Exam Mentoring session, each of which comes with an optional, similar self-depricating anecdote from yours truly!